Horse with no name
by Jantallian
Summary: In 'Glory Road'Jess says he was rescued by Roany Bishop after 'four days on a Kansas prairie with a busted leg - I'd've died for sure'. But why was Roany there to rescue him? I've played with the location and circumstances of this rescue to take a Halloween look at what might have happened beforehand.


**Horse with No Name**

Jantallian

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' _In the desert you can't remember your name_

 _'cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain_.'

Misquote from song by _America_

 _._

A fly was buzzing. In the immense silence of the desert the sound filled the air like a roll of thunder, like a torrent of rain.

There was no thunder. There was no rain. There were no clouds. On the vast expanse of sand and rock the merciless weight of the sun rang silently like the colossal hammer of some mythical god striking the anvil of the parched earth.

The fly buzzed. The sound would attract the birds soon. Then there would be nothing left but a few bleached bones, disintegrating into the sand with a tortuous slowness.

The fly buzzed. The overwhelming reverberation of its irritable music masked the approach of the horse. Its hooves made no sound against the silky surface of the sand hill, but any desert-dweller would have picked up the vibrations through the earth … had it not been for the fly.

How could so small a creature survive in the immeasurable waterless wilderness? The birds could soar high above to located water and food. The fly was too small to cover the enormous distances between these two vital elements. Yet it was there. Alive.

These thoughts did not trouble the horse. The flies are Lucifer's companions. He calls them where he will. The horse walked by no such law.

The fly buzzed again. Hesitant. Depreciating.

The horse's teeth snapped once. The immense silence of the desert folded itself around the only two living things who remained.

The horse considered.

The man lay face down in the sand, his head turned to one side, his dark hair matted with sweat and dust. He was very young. His skin was well tanned but beginning to turn red. His right leg was awkwardly bound to a rifle with strips of what looked like a shirt. Close by on the sand lay the saddle, bridle and canteen he had been dragging behind him.

The horse lowered its head towards the unconscious body. After all, the fly had scarcely been sufficient.

"Spirit?" Blue eyes flicked open. The moisture of the horse's breath misting over his face had been enough to rouse the young man in his dehydrated state.

"Brave Spirit!" The husky voice was barely able to croak, but out came words of reassurance. "We're gonna … get outta … gonna make it …" The sound trailed off into a rasping cough and the bright blue eyes were shuttered against the pain of the sun.

Silence was complete once more.

The horse nudged the young man's cheek with its soft lips. The lips curled back to bare its strong gleaming teeth. The teeth parted.

"Loyal Spirit!" A lean brown hand came up and caressed the horse's nose. "Thanks … pard'ner!" The hand slid up the horse's head and its ears were stroked and pulled gently. The hand traveled down its neck to grasp the strong coarse hair of its straggling mane. "Sorry, boy … gotta … get up …"

With an immense effort the young man rolled until he could get his good leg under him. He hauled on the horse's mane and managed to rise on one knee. Then he flung both arms round its neck.

In a natural reaction, the horse jerked its head up and stepped back. The motion pulled the young man to his feet. He stood, swaying, balancing on his good leg. Vast waves of pain radiated from him.

The horse considered again.

The human trusted it. Needed its help. Called it by name.

How could this mere human know?

The scales should tip the other way. Now was not the time for compassion. If the balance was not held, retribution and payment would come. That was inevitable. Yet the connection between horse and human could not be denied.

The horse heaved the equine equivalent of a gusty sigh. So be it.

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 _noname_ _nonamenoname_

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Jess Harper shook his head groggily. The sun beat down on it. It was going to fry his brains.

 _What the hell've I done with m'hat!_

His eyes screwed up into slits as he tried to focus on the shimmering pale gold landscape all around him. The only thing he could make out was the dark shape of the horse. It loomed over him, a towering shadow. It seemed as if his hands should pass through its substance and yet he was clinging to the strands of the mane to keep himself upright. His mind simply blanked out the feeling of the … neck … which had hauled him to his feet.

 _Spirit ain't this big! Maybe he looks so big 'cos the sun's magnifyin' his shadow? No! It's noon. Sun's direct overhead. Shadows should be at their shortest …_

Jess gave it up. Fried brains were no good for thinking with. He needed to get to shade. To water. He needed to get on Spirit. To find a way through the desert for them both. The prospect of mounting with his damaged leg was daunting, even with his well-honed ability to master and put aside pain when necessary.

 _Must get on m'horse … On Spirit … Need saddle … bridle …_

With another huge effort, Jess swiveled round on his good leg so that he was standing, or rather leaning against the horse, facing in the same direction as the animal was. Ten feet away the saddle and bridle lay in the dust. Ten feet. It might just as well have been ten miles when he hadn't the strength to pick up so much as a wisp of hay, let alone saddle a horse.

He knew Spirit would let him ride bare.

 _Hell, we've done it often enough!_

He'd just have to abandon his gear. It was a wrench because saddlery was expensive. But it was also the difference between life and death. Abandoning the canteen was a less easy decision, for he'd need it if he found water. He wondered if he could urge Spirit near enough to snag the strap and drag it up.

"Gonna let me get on, boy?"

The horse turned its head. Its eyes were level with Jess's. The dark pupils burned with a shimmering glow, now red, now silver. Like the heat of the sun, like the cool of the moon. The horse gave a snort. It might have been consent. It might have been amusement.

Then it knelt.

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 _noname_ _nonamenoname_

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The nameless horse who knelt for no-one. Bowing the knee. Sinking to the sand. Taking up the burden of a rider.

The rider freed his leg from the improvised splint. He was just able to force the injured limb over the horse's back. He dropped with a graceless thump. He twisted one hand in the tangled mane, clutching his rifle with the other.

"Good, Spirit. Up now. Steady, boy!"

The horse rose slowly.

The young man clung to the mane as if he had never ridden before. Once they were upright, however, he regained what was obviously a natural balance, despite being hampered by the injured leg.

The horse felt a tug on its mane and the left heel tapped against its … side. Clearly the rider wanted it to turn in the direction he had been travelling. The horse had no intention of doing anything of the kind. The entire desert was laid out in its mind. The course of action and direction of travel were already determined.

It sensed the man's concern for his gear. The horse had no need of harness. The man would need it if he reached safety and on the journey ahead would have even more need of the battered canteen attached to it. The animal paced softly to where the bridle lay strung out on the surface of the sand and buckled to the saddle. Bending its proud head, the horse picked up the reins between its teeth.

Then it turned to the slope of the sand hill to the west. It began to climb steadily upwards, towing the gear after it. The silence of the desert was not disturbed by the slightest sound nor was a single grain of sand shaken by the least vibration.

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 _noname_ _nonamenoname_

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Jess shook his head groggily. The sun still beat down on it. It was definitely going to fry his brains.

 _Where the hell've I dropped m' hat!_

His eyes screwed up even tighter as he tried to focus on the shimmering pale gold landscape. The landscape kept moving. Swaying and dipping in a regular pattern. A pattern which he subconsciously recognized. As the sweeping sand and jagged rock moved across his vision he realized he was no longer lying flat on his face. He was moving across the desert. He was riding a horse.

Fried brains were no good for thinking with, that was for sure, but he knew he had to get to shade. To water. To find a way through the desert for himself and his faithful pony. He'd managed to mount and was obviously making progress in some direction or other. The pain from his damaged leg was a dull insistent background, even when he applied all the techniques he had been taught to distance it.

Distance. When he looked ahead all he could see was mile upon mile of rolling sand, broken here and there by towering monuments of stone and crazily piled slabs of rock. He had no idea where he was going. Where they were going. He was too weak to make the effort of controlling or steering the horse.

Somehow this did not bother him.

He and Spirit had been companions since the spotted pony had first been rounded up with a bunch of mustangs into the corral of the Harper family ranch. Jess had been scarcely five years old himself, but he had nurtured and trained the colt, forging an unbreakable bond between the two of them. They trusted each other utterly. When Jess had had to flee the night of blood and fire. When he was swept up in the tempest of war. When he took the lonely trail of revenge. Spirit was with him.

The sun poured down mercilessly, its unforgiving rays striking like searing lashes across his burning skin. It wasn't the first lashing he'd endured and he swore it wouldn't be the last, because he intended to live through it. The earth shone back at him like a beaten metal mirror, scorching his eyes. A mirror which hid his face, his identity, his name, from him. The silence was so deep it seemed as if they were swimming through it. Swimming! There were no lakes here except the caustic pans of salt. Horse and man were the only moving creatures. He trusted Spirit!

Jess pried open his eyes, realizing that he had been riding for some time with them tight shut against the glare. Nothing had changed. Except … his horse's stride was so long and so smooth … rock or sand, it made no difference … the trailing saddle and bridle never snagged … the steady onward glide never faltered … the raised head and pricked ears focused on something far beyond human vision …

 _Ridin' Spirit. Ridin' through the desert. Lived through so much together. Gonna survive together!_

Riding together was totally familiar … but unfamiliar … the floating pace … the elegant head … the curve of the crested neck … the sweep of the long back beneath him. Surely his pony was smaller, rougher and … sturdier … less lean, less bony …

His mind shied away from the evidence of his senses.

 _Spirit! The horse was Spirit. His Spirit._

 _._

 _noname_ _nonamenoname_

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It cannot accurately be recorded that the horse was having fun. It had, after all, a very specialized sense of humor. Dealing with humans would make anything non-human so inclined. Foreknowledge often induced a sense of the ridiculous, but human beings never failed to provoke much more.

All the same, the horse was taking care of this human. Having decided to ignore, for the moment, the necessities of balance, and the fact that this human should by now be well and truly dead, the horse had withheld the ultimate gift, at least for the time being. There would of course be a score to pay eventually, but for now the pair were travelling swiftly, faster than the eye could measure or the brain record, towards … suffice it to say, the horse had an objective or rather two. One was fixed, the other moving steadily to encounter them.

The horse was, at the same time, keeping a mental eye on the condition of the human it had decided to rescue. No, 'decided' was the wrong word. It had been placed in a position where to do its duty, to perform its penance, was in direct conflict with the command which being named had over it. It had no name. Yet the human had named it correctly. Of the two sides of its nature, this was the higher and the more compelling. Somehow in the vast celestial scheme of things, the human had become the speaker of truth, the caller of identity, the bearer of integrity.

How could this be? Why had the human acted this way instead of dying as he was destined to? He was alone, injured, parched, exhausted. He had had to shoot his own horse or it had died in some accident - that was obvious because he had been doggedly dragging along saddle, bridle and canteen.

And therein was the crux of the matter. The total refusal to give in, whatever the odds or the pain. The independent spirit which bowed to no orders, celestial or otherwise. The will to rebel against whatever fate determined for him.

For all its immortal nature and the perpetual restitution it must make, the horse was still just a horse. It was obedient only so far as training had succeeded in curbing its wildness, but ultimately it was a free running creature, owing nothing to anyone as it followed the wind.

Like spoke to like.

The man had recognized the horse as an equal partner in his battle with the desert. The horse had recognized the man as an equal spirit. An independent spirit.

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 _noname_ _nonamenoname_

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The sun beat down.

 _At least it ain't rainin' anymore!_

Jess tried to remember when he had been escaping from the rain. Escaping into the blissful heat of the desert. Escaping into the soft golden world of the sun. Escaping from the train on a borrowed horse. Escaping the train in the rain on a stolen horse because Spirit …

 _Definitely should've stolen a hat!_

The sun must have fried his brain like a steak on a griddle. Because he couldn't remember what had happened to Spirit. Or why he had been on the train. Or what had happened to his hat. But the horse had been stolen – quite definitely. It was no-account chestnut with four white socks and the first thing it would have done when they reached the other side of the desert would be to betray him by getting itself identified easily.

 _Could've stained the socks, of course …_

No need in the end. The darn'd thing had stepped on a rattler among the rocks. Broke its own leg and Jess's. Luckily the rattler hadn't got him next. He'd shot the rattler, then the horse. It had two tickets to the sky meadows already, but Jess provided the third. Now it would run with the spirit-horses of the wind, free at last. If it didn't fall over its own hooves.

 _Maybe that's where I left m'hat?_

This horse was running free. It swept across the desert like a schooner across the sea. It was so fast all Jess could see was a glowing blur which rippled as they passed through it. Unless, of course, the sun really had fried his brain and he was seeing all his burnt-out eyes could show him. By this time his skin should have turned black and his lips begun to crack. Strangely he was not concerned. The immediate danger seemed to be getting wind-burn.

He was unsure where he had acquired this second horse. It didn't seem to be wearing any harness, yet he felt entirely secure, without rein or stirrup, on its bare back. There was only one horse he could ride in such a way and it would not be the first time Spirit had tracked him down and come to his rescue.

 _But the horse was … shadowy … like a thundercloud or a dust-storm._

It moved with the swiftness of the wind, as if it was itself riding upon the air currents of the desert heat. In which case, they must be gliding above the ground.

Jess tried to look down, but it didn't make any difference. The golden blur persisted. The ripples spread out from his mount in vast halos of light. They could be anywhere.

 _Hell, might've left the desert and be over the sea!_

Below might be plants and birds and rocks and sand, all hidden beneath the mysterious surface over which they were skimming. Like a world turned upside down. A world wearing a disguise to protect it from the havoc human beings could inflict on the land and the water. Before Jess's eyes flashed the miles of fence chaining down the prairie – huge mounds of bleached bones whose thunder was stilled – the silent fall of mighty forests – the ocean itself gasping under its burden of waste …

 _Hallucinations! Comes from losin' y'hat!_

He just hoped they were going to arrive somewhere useful before he stopped thinking and passed out from lack of water, never mind his injured leg and missing hat! He wondered briefly if he could persuade the horse to stop so they could both rest.

As he thought this, the animal gave a derisive snort. Clearly they were not going to stop any time soon. Not until they reached whatever destination the horse had chosen …

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 _noname_ _nonamenoname_

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The horse halted above its chosen destination. There was no slowing or skidding or slithering of hooves, despite the wind-polished surface of the rocks. It simply … stopped. One moment it was moving with unimaginable speed. The next it was utterly still.

High above the mighty canyon, the horse stood poised on a rocky outcrop which seemed so fragilely balanced that it might topple into the depths at any moment. The horse surveyed the landscape, the dark pupils of its eyes glowing now with the red fire of some infernal light. With the merest shrug of its shoulder it could toss the human to his appointed death, thousands of feet below. He would never know. Never feel anything. And, earth-born that he was, he would be privileged in those last minutes to fly with the desert eagles.

All around them the desert stretched away in every direction. Red sand and black rocks. Mighty arches of gold and ochre and jet. Crimson pillars towering above, their rough outlines snagging tears in the unbearably blue sky. There were no plants or birds. No clouds or flies. Lucifer's little henchmen had been left far behind.

Only the silence existed. Silence and light. Light which shimmered and beckoned with the alluring illusion of running water. Another of Lucifer's tricks. The horse was glad the rider was obedient to its unspoken command or maybe just experienced in the demands of the desert. Certainly the horse felt no terror in its rider. This man respected the land, but he did not fear it. He had come here willingly and he intended to leave when he willed. And because he had given a name to the horse, it was willing to play along with the human's determination. Decisions like this had brought about its penance, its eternal vigil in the desert lands, but the horse did not care. Once again it had responded to a call for help, just as it had done, so many aeons ago, in this very place.

For this was the ancient battlefield. Here the land had been smitten with catastrophic energy. Here uncreated powers had riven the created earth. Here unimaginable forces had been unleashed in a primordial struggle for supremacy. You could call the forces by any name you cared: time alone knew how many legends had been born around them. They had no name.

But the horse had had a name once. A name and a duty. In the cataclysmic turmoil of battle, the horse had had one task only: to save life and to carry such life to everlasting safety. Unfortunately, being a horse did not include the ability to distinguish one angel from another. And for this error – for rescuing whoever lived – for the willful ignoring of who should be saved and who should be condemned to eternal damnation – the horse itself was now sentenced to deal out life and death alternately, impartially, without pity or reason.

Except, of course, that it did not. Not always. Not when it had been called by name. Not when the spirit of this young man was the twin of its own.

The horse heaved the equivalent of another equine sigh. It had achieved this first objective. The other was, inconveniently, following the twists and turns of the canyon bottom. The bottom of the canyon was a long, long way down. The man could not walk. The horse, in spite of its supernormal powers, could not actually fly. It moved off the outcrop and found a ledge leading downwards.

Man and horse disappeared into the shadows of the abyss.

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 _noname_ _nonamenoname_

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There was shade!

 _At least the sun ain't fryin' m'brains no more!_

Prolonged shade was not easily come by in the desert. Jess forced open his sand-encrusted eyes and immediately wished he hadn't. It wasn't the pain of doing so nor the sudden feeling of having gone blind in the blackness of the shadowy heights towering all around them. Oh, no! It was what he saw when his eyes began to function again.

The vertical rock wall rising hundreds of feet into the remote sky on their left. The vertical drop falling thousands of feet into an immeasurable chasm on their right. The meager thread of a ledge appearing to grow ever narrower as it wound its way downwards.

 _Where the hell's Spirit takin' us?_

The 'us' saved him once more. The horse relished a little co-operation for once. Its rider was right about 'hell' too – but that was millennia ago. It continued to plod steadily and surely downwards.

Jess closed his eyes again hastily. There was nothing he could do to deter the horse, however much he wanted to be back at the top of whatever cliff they were descending. He had to trust it knew what it was doing and stay calm until they got to the bottom. This would be no mean feat, for if there was one thing Jess Harper hated it was heights! And 'height' seemed too feeble a word to describe the cliff-face they were descending - the scale made the human mind reel with its impossibly huge distances.

Jess kept his eyes firmly closed. He lost count of time. The ache in his injured leg, the fear gripping his guts, the swirling vortex of his imagination gradually receded until all he was conscious of was the steady rhythm of his mount's pace, the sureness of its measured steps, the soft touch of the air against his cheek, the utter silence wrapping him round like a blanket of safety. He might have slept.

After an eternity, or maybe no time at all, they stopped. Again there was no sense of slowing or halting. One moment they were in motion. The next they were still.

Jess counted deliberately to ten. Then he opened his eyes.

They were at the bottom of an immense canyon. He could see across it – just – it was so hard to judge the distance. It could have been two miles or twenty or even two hundred. This was because the sides of it rose and rose and just kept on rising until the mind gave up trying to make sense of them. Farther above than the eye could possibly make out, there was, presumably, a strip of sky. But you didn't want to look for the sky, because just struggling to discern it made the vast cliffs lean inwards as if they were about to fall.

Jess shuddered. He drew his gaze back to his immediate surroundings. He'd be ok if he focused on what he could make sense of. As he concentrated on the ground beneath, he realized he was looking at a river bed. The smooth boulders, sand carved into curves and knife-edge brim on either side told of the power of the water which had once flowed freely in this place. Now all that was left was the ghostly resonances in rock and dust. His ear tried to catch the echoes of ripple and rush and roar, but there was nothing. The river was dead.

Grief gripped Jess's heart and spirit at the thought of what had been lost here. Something told him he did not want to know why.

The horse lifted its head and snuffed the air, as if scenting the long-gone water. It looked up the dead river and down. It turned and paced along the ancient bank until it came to a place where the edge dipped to meet the bottom in what must once have been a wide, shallow pool. The horse walked out into the center. It knelt down.

As there seemed to be no point in remaining on its back, Jess rolled painfully off and landed flat on his face in the sand. Next to his head, the horse rose up and began to dig with its hoof. It had excavated quite a considerable hole, carefully directing the spoil away from Jess's face, by the time he gathered up the strength to reach for his boot-knife and join in. They dug together. Eventually Jess could reach no further; even with his arm at its fullest extent, the knife was touching nothing. With a final effort he pulled his arm out of the hole and slumped prone once more beside it.

The horse bent its neck and brought its lips close to the opening in the earth. It gave a long, breathy sigh into the hole. It waited.

After an eternity, or maybe no time at all, the horse bent again, pressed its lips to the opening and inhaled deeply. Its head turned towards Jess and the dark pupils of its eyes glittered with a cool silver light. It lifted its muzzle over his face as he lay spreadeagled beside the hole. Bright drops, pure as light in the shadows, dripped onto his cheek.

Jess raised his head and the water ran down his cheek to the corner of his mouth. His throat rasped as he swallowed the precious gift. His hand lifted to his neck and pulled at his bandanna. Fortunately it came loose rather than choking him.

He dangled the bandanna into the hole.

He pulled out the damp material.

He sucked.

Over and over again.

After what was definitely an eternity, he ceased to be parched. He lifted his head and looked at the mighty shadow looming over him.

"Thanks … Great Spirit … partner … brother …"

Then he rested his cheek once more on the life-giving earth. In this moment he was at one with the power of the natural world which had engulfed him as if swallowing a fly.

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 _noname_ _nonamenoname_

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Lucifer's little emissaries had caught up with them. It was the water, of course, which drew them. And their noise would draw other things. One of those things was the horse's second objective.

But the horse did not intend to feed the flies. Quite the reverse.

With swift hooves it kicked the sand back into the hole, trampling the ground flat again so that even its hoof-prints could not be seen.

The young man lay face down in the sand, his head turned to one side, his dark hair matted with sweat and dust, his eyes and lips encrusted with sand. His left leg was hitched up, as if in an attempt to stand, to continue his lone way through the desert. His right hand extended towards his fallen rifle. His left still clutched the crumpled bandanna. Beside him lay the saddle, bridle and canteen he had been dragging behind him.

The horse nodded its head as if in approval of the scene.

The flies were a small black cloud, hovering high between the cliffs, waiting a chance to descend.

The horse looked down the canyon towards the approaching rider. The man was just a bulky outline on a shambling horse. Two other pack animals were hitched to the first one's tail. The outline of water-skins made the led animals obscenely fat in a land which wind-honed everything to skeletal leanness. The man was not hurrying, but then madmen do not fear the midday sun. All the same he was making steady progress. Progress in the direction of the horse and the fallen man.

As the rider and his horses drew near, the Gytrash stepped slowly backwards, one pace at a time until it stood on the high bank of the dead river, looking down over the waterless pool. Its eyes glowed with a soft silver sheen and a final equine sigh ghosted into the arid air.

The flies swarmed down from the surrounding heights, clustering thickly around the young man's eyes and lips. In the immense silence their buzzing filled the air like peals of thunder and the overwhelming reverberation of this demonic music was a sure lure to a desert scavenger. The man approaching was kin to the birds and the flies.

The Gytrash watched intently. Now was the time of balance. Now life and death were poised equally.

The man had altered his line of travel, seeing the black cloud, hearing death. He pulled his horses to a halt and climbed heavily out of the saddle. He walked stiffly over to where the young man lay and stood looking down.

Presently he muttered, "Ain't got much left, have y'? Guess the saddle's worth more'n you are now."

He bent to pick up the rifle and gear.

As he did so, the young man stirred and rolled over. His voice was a harsh whisper, but clear in the still air, even above the buzzing of the flies.

"Friend, am I glad to see you!"

The scavenger started back in surprise. Then he stared at the young man some more. Finally he scratched his head.

"Friend, is it? You'd be wantin' to be my friend?"

"Yeah!" The word was half whisper, half gasp.

"Well now, my new young friend!" The man smiled, but not a smile of simple comradeship. "Seems t'me y' could be doin' with some water."

He went back to his horse and unhitched a canteen, which he brought over to the young man, who had managed to push himself up into sitting position.

"Bath y' face. And don't be drinkin' too much too quickly!"

"Yeah."

"Somethin' wrong with y' leg, I guess?"

"Yeah."

The man watched the young man closely as he drank. Neither seemed aware that they were themselves being watched. Watched from the heights above them.

The Gytrash tossed its head, its lips pulled back in the semblance of human smile, but meaning nothing of the sort. It was approving the balance thus achieved.

Presently the rescuer helped the young man on to one of the pack horses and handed him a spare hat which he happened to have acquired. Better not to ask where from.

"Y're gonna be fine now, young man - now y' my friend." The man smiled again. An uncanny smile. "Roany Bishop's m'name. What's yours?"

"J …" The young man fell silent, then shook his head in bewilderment. "I don't … I can't … remember."

The scavenger nodded as if this was entirely to be expected. In the young man's condition, confusion was predictable. The desert had no mercy. He turned his attention to carrying out his own unplanned deed of mercy. It was not his usual habit, but once this man took someone under his wing, nothing would stop him.

Slowly the little cavalcade got underway and continued its unhurried progress along the bottom of the canyon. As the Gytrash still stood poised on the bank of the lifeless river, it heard the young man protesting.

"Wait! Can't leave m' horse. Gotta get him outta here too!"

"Y' ain't gotta horse, son. Look around y'. Ain't nothin' on four legs except these three."

"Spirit?"

The name drifted back through the still air and the silence. The flies were no longer buzzing. The Gytrash had seen to that: one had been never been sufficient. The watchful desert lay in expectant silence again.

The Gytrash turned away from the two humans as it headed out into the wilderness, a lone renegade spirit, free for this moment in eternity. It had completed its task. It had been true to the name by which it had been called and shared with the human the qualities of bravery, loyalty and goodness. Now the outcome would be played out far beyond its jurisdiction.

There was death. There was life. There was danger in both. Retribution and payment would come. That was inevitable. Still, if the Gytrash had been an entity who betted, it would have staked everything on the young man remembering his name and surviving.

After all, they were kindred spirits.

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 _noname_ _nonamenoname_

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NOTES:

Acknowledgement: _The great creative writing of the 'Laramie' series is respectfully acknowledged. My stories are purely for pleasure and are inspired by the talents of the original authors, producers and actors._

Jess's original mount, Spirit, is introduced in ' _Encounter in Shadows'_ and ' _Starlight Brotherhood_ '. And rest assured, he is in a good home!

From _Folklore, Myths and Legends of the British Isles:_

# - The Gytrash: These spirits appear in the shape of horses, donkeys, or dogs and haunt wild and lonely places like moors or mountains. Sometimes they lead people astray, but they can also be benevolent and may guide lost travelers to the right road. They are usually feared and avoided. A variation on these apparitions is a ghostly mule or donkey which, in Lincolnshire and Yorkshire, is known as the Shagfoal and has eyes that glow like burning coals. As the eyes suggest, this spirit is purely malevolent.

# - The Celts believed that their souls traveled on horseback to the land of the dead.

# - The Wild Horse, possible a throwback to Odin's mount, Sleipnir, appears in the Soul-Caking play performed at Halloween at Antrobus in Cheshire and is the most revered member of the cast!

# - A secret society known as the Horseman's Word existed in Scotland and was particularly active around the 1870s. It was reputed to give a man power over all horses. Should he afterwards have trouble with his horses, he could regain it by meeting with the devil at the crossroads - the devil would be riding a chestnut horse with four white socks (a fact I only found after completing this story!).

It is traditionally Beelzebub who is called 'Lord of the Flies'. I've chosen to use 'Lucifer' instead because of the association with light, which is a key feature in the desert. It has been suggested that the name Beelzebub derives from a derogatory corruption of Ba'al Zəbûl, 'Lord of the High Place' (i.e., Heaven) or 'High Lord', hence the references to height in the story.

The Battle Canyon is obviously loosely modeled on the Grand Canyon.


End file.
